


hoping that our tired hearts will gently heal

by statusquo_ergo



Series: no matter your sin, i'll shoulder it for you [2]
Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Prison, and Harvey is doing his best to help, but Mike is trying his best, but it's pretty fluffy, life after prison is hard, spoiler-free tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9310925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statusquo_ergo/pseuds/statusquo_ergo
Summary: It's been a year since Mike got out of prison.Things are...going.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened.
> 
> I think because of [Aigneadh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aigneadh/pseuds/Aigneadh). I mean that as a compliment, unless you don't like the story, in which case it was all my fault.
> 
> This is basically a coda to "every day up 'til now will resound like recompense"; it's very weak on its own in terms of substance and context, so I recommend reading the series in order. (However if you elect to move forward without, the context is that Mike served in prison and on parole for his full two-year sentence and Lisa Von was his parole officer, and he and Harvey got together shortly after his release.)
> 
> Anyway, have fun.

The noise starts as a ringing in his ears, a piercing sound that ricochets from one hemisphere to another. The hard drive is stuck in an infinite loop. It’ll crash at this rate.

He listens to the crescendo rise until a single voice comes through: male, middle aged or a little younger. It shouts disparate words in a halting staccato, a clumsy sound without intention. Another voice, almost the same, harmonizes with the first to create a staticky soundtrack more than a little out of tune; it’s joined by another, another and another and another, a cacophony of nonsense reaching out into the dark toward the beginning of the universe.

The prisoners are threatening to riot—they do every time they get fed up, every time the line stretches a little too thin—and the walls begin to tremble as they stomp up and down the halls in their flimsy white sneakers (no laces) and plastic shower sandals.

The warehouse is empty.

Sitting in the middle of the floor, holding his knees to his chest, he breathes in deep, the scent of dust filling his nostrils as the particles coat his lungs. Dead skin, animal hair, paper fibers, minerals from the soil in the yard.

I don’t want to die.

Sorry?

I don’t want to die.

Didn’t quite catch that.

I don’t want to die.

Once more for luck.

“I don’t want to die.”

Good.

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

Five AM.

The alarm switches off, and Mike puts his hand over his mouth and lies still.

“Hey.”

He sighs through his nose and pinches it shut.

“Was it a bad one?”

He thinks about saying something, clarifying; in the end, he just shakes his head.

It’s still dark out.

“I’m going down to the gym, okay; I’ll have my cell. Come on down or gimme a call if you feel like it, or, if you need anything.”

Mike’s eyes water just enough to blur the finer points of his vision and he blinks once, which clears precisely nothing. Harvey pats the mattress a couple of times and walks tenderly to the en suite, closing the door with the softest click he can manage; Mike listens to the water run as Harvey brushes his teeth.

He won’t be falling back to sleep.

It’s okay.

Everything is okay.

Harvey spits into the sink and opens the door slowly, creeping over to the closet. Mike throws his arm over his forehead and tilts his face up toward the ceiling, and Harvey pauses with his hand poised over his workout bag.

Leaving the bag where it is, he sits at the foot of the bed.

“Was it a bad one?”

Mike shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

“Mike.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Harvey rubs his ankle through the comforter.

“Good boy.”

Mike laughs under his breath.

\---

Patterson v. Feltsman, intellectual property dispute. It’s a slam dunk, really; Patterson is a cocky asshole, but his case doesn’t hold even a drop of water and Feltsman’s gonna take him for all he’s worth. Mike scribbles a few keywords in the margin of Patterson’s patent application that Harvey will understand and which will likely mean little to nothing to anyone else; then, just for fun, he highlights every sixth word on the twelfth page and redacts every fifth word on the thirteenth before he tosses the damn thing onto the coffee table and slouches down in his seat.

The clock underneath the television informs him that he’s only been working for three hours. Yeah, that feels right. Would’ve been faster if the language wasn’t so intentionally convoluted, or maybe if he’d gotten a better night’s sleep.

For about ten seconds, Mike considers calling Ray to drive him up to Specter Litt, but in reality it’s not that far, and this case is important but not a top priority, so there’s not exactly a rush. It’s a nice clear day, and he could use the exercise; Harvey doesn’t love it when he bikes on icy streets, but it won’t hurt to walk.

Having so much free time is nice, it really is. It’s like a reward for being good at his job: His last-ever meeting with Lisa Von was a few weeks ago, and he now has freedom because he’s successful. It’s nice.

He repeats the words over in his head all the way down to the lobby and out the front door (it’s nice, it’s nice), and he makes it all the way to forty-eighth and third before his phone rings; Harvey, what a fun coincidence.

“Hey babe,” Mike says, slowing his pace only just. “I finished the Patterson report.”

“I’ll need it on my desk in five,” Harvey retorts, and Mike grins to himself.

“You got it, boss.”

“Sarcasm,” Harvey warns.

Mike checks the street sign above his head and picks up his pace again. “If only.”

Harvey smirks, Mike knows, the same way he knows Harvey’s leaned back in his chair and put his elbow up on the desk and that his eyes are creasing at the corners.

“Oh really.”

“Really.”

A lull makes Mike’s stomach knot, but then Harvey scoffs. “You realize you’re ruining my schedule.”

Oh; was this somehow a bad idea?

“I’m a block away,” Mike says cautiously over Harvey’s quiet hum, “but, uh, I don’t have to come by; should I go back home?”

“I— No,” Harvey interrupts himself, “no, that doesn’t make sense, come on, I’ll meet you in the lobby. We’ll go to Hillstone, there’s something I need to talk to you about anyway.”

Mike nods, which is pointless, and then mumbles an agreeable noise, “Mm-hm” or something, and keeps walking.

The lobby is as trendy and unoriginal as he remembers, which is unsurprising for any number of reasons, and Harvey’s already waiting by the time he gets there, his eyes fixed on his watch. Edging forward, Mike sticks his hand out just in Harvey’s line of vision.

“Jack McCoy, we spoke on the phone earlier,” he says severely, and Harvey looks up, startled. What the hell does he have to be so distracted over? Mike hopes he’s not sick before dismissing the idea as ridiculous. Paranoia, that’s all it is. Everything’s fine.

“Smartass,” Harvey says, resting his hand on Mike’s back just long enough to turn him back to the doors and push him a step forward. Mike raises his messenger bag halfheartedly as he walks.

“Patterson v. Feltsman,” he offers. “Patterson’s a dick.”

“You’re telling me.”

Mike doesn’t offer the actual file, and Harvey doesn’t ask for it; they walk to the restaurant in a comfortable enough silence and Harvey exchanges pleasantries with the hostess, who escorts them to a central table behind an array of wine glasses.

Harvey orders the Hawaiian rib-eye, and Mike requests a cheeseburger.

This is a nice restaurant.

Mike’s leg bounces under the table; Harvey takes a drink of water.

“So—”

“Did you have any trouble?”

Mike blinks owlishly, and Harvey nods toward his bag.

“Patterson.”

Oh, right.

Mike shrugs.

“Pretty open and shut,” he admits. “I’m kind of impressed he’s even willing to go with it to court.”

“Mm.”

This isn’t going quite as Mike had anticipated.

They make small talk, and he thinks about asking Harvey if everything is okay. He won’t; it’s a stupid question, much too vague, and they both hate it, but for a minute, he considers it. Maybe just this once.

Nah.

The waiter smiles widely when he arrives with their food; Harvey smiles back, and Mike says thanks.

He has a mouthful of egg bun and ground chuck when Harvey asks him:

“Mike, are you happy?”

He nearly chokes. It’s obvious why Harvey waited; what’s the knee-jerk response but “Yes, of course”? Harvey is a clever bastard, and he doesn’t want the knee-jerk response. Who would? (Plenty of people, all the sort who say “How are you” and get frustrated when the answer is anything but “Fine,” but that’s not important.)

Mike chews slowly and looks off to the side. Swallows.

“I should be,” he decides, and Harvey frowns and puts his fork down.

“I didn’t ask if you _should_ be happy, I asked if you _are._ ”

Yeah, and did you notice how I didn’t answer?

Mike shrugs, lifting the top bun off his burger and putting it back, and replies without looking Harvey in the eye.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

Nodding to himself, Harvey cuts another piece of steak, even though there’s a bit already on his fork. Mike drums his fingers against the tabletop and casts his eyes down to his lap.

“Think about it,” Harvey advises. Mike smirks reflexively and drinks his water.

“And in the meantime, walk me through the Feltsman case.”

Mike fetches the file from his bag and lays it open on the table, taking care not to spill any ketchup on the more sensitive pages as he explains that they’re going to win without even trying.

When the waiter brings the check, Harvey passes off his credit card without bothering to look.

“I should be home early tonight,” he says. “We’ll talk.”

Mike nods and fidgets with his napkin.

\---

The eyes of a million strangers follow him home, and he keeps his gaze fixed on a point exactly five feet in front of him, six inches above his natural eyeline, at all times.

Are you happy now?

Am I happy now?

(Who are you kidding?)

\---

True to his word, Harvey makes it home by eight ten; Mike has only been watching the clock since seven. Ish.

“Got Chinese,” Harvey says, dropping the bag on the coffee table beside Mike’s propped-up feet. Mike nods as he closes his laptop and lays it aside, leaning forward to fish around for the inevitable spring rolls.

Harvey takes the bag back after Mike has claimed his prize and removes the rest of the containers, opening each and fitting the appropriates ones with serving spoons, arranging them like some sort of poor man’s buffet. Something about the spread, the aesthetic stops them both from eating; Mike rests his chin in his hands and Harvey leans back in his chair.

“So,” Mike says after a stilted minute.

It doesn’t make it better.

Harvey makes a plate for Mike and slides it across the table.

Okay.

Mike rips the paper wrapping off a pair of disposable wooden chopsticks.

Okay.

“I thought about it,” Mike says without context, and Harvey nods warily.

“I still don’t know,” he admits, “which probably means something, you know?”

Harvey nods again, more slowly, and Mike snickers awkwardly at his own rambling before he can control himself.

“But I figured out something else,” he says. “Mainly that I don’t think I want to keep working for you.”

Harvey sighs out through his nose; he saw this coming, really he did. He’s seen it coming for awhile. It’s okay. Whatever’s best for Mike, that’s the important thing.

He should say something encouraging, something supportive.

He doesn’t.

“For a couple of reasons,” Mike goes on, “but mostly I just think I want to explore my options, you know?” He shrugs, twirling one of the chopsticks like a drumstick between his fingers. “I’ve been trying to pretend I’m the same guy who went to prison even though I know, I _know_ I’m not. Those guys, me then and me now, they see the world differently, they want…different things.”

Harvey pulls a container of sticky rice toward himself and tries to smile like he means it.

“Whatever you need,” he says, “you got it. And considering you put in a whole year of service at the firm, I bet we can get you a pretty nice severance package; I’m actually in pretty good standing with the HR department.”

Mike laughs again, pressing his hands together and raising them in front of his mouth.

They sit in silence; Harvey spoons some rice onto his plate and goes after the sweet and sour chicken next.

“You said a couple of reasons,” he comments then, as though the detail is superfluous. Mike shrugs, hunching his shoulders somewhat and becoming smaller than Harvey’s seen him in a long time.

“I’m kind of broken, you know?”

Harvey frowns. “You’re not.”

Mike coughs an uncomfortable laugh. “Just because you’ve put up with me all this time, that doesn’t make me perfect.”

He’s always put Harvey on the stair just a little bit above his own, hasn’t he. Harvey wonders if he’ll ever stop.

“I don’t ‘put up with you,’” Harvey tries. “If I was just doing you some kind of favor keeping you around, trust me, you’d’ve been out on your ass a long time ago. And I’ve never said you were perfect, so don’t even worry about that.”

Mike flushes a little, and the smallness is replaced by a certain type of bravado, a special sort that means taking on challenges without being quite prepared.

“But, I was just thinking…”

Wait a second.

Wait one goddamn second.

“Mike.”

Mike purses his lips and then clicks his tongue.

“I…”

Leaving the food laid out where it is and his plate only half loaded, Harvey gets up from his chair and sits beside Mike on the sofa; they both keep their eyes on the blank screen of the television, fixating on the flatness of it, the emptiness.

The clock turns over. Eight thirty.

“Food’s getting cold,” Harvey says.

“Will you marry me?” Mike asks.

If Harvey had ever imagined this moment—he hasn’t, of course, because that would be presumptuous, but if he had, he definitely wouldn’t have come up with this.

He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad one; in the end, it doesn’t matter much. It doesn’t matter at all. Raising his hand to the back of Mike’s neck, he tilts him a little closer, pressing his lips to the crown of Mike’s head.

“Yes,” he says as he pulls back. “I’d be—”

Mike cuts him off with a bruising kiss, his hands on the sides of Harvey’s neck and his thumbs bracketing the underside of his jaw; it feels more heated than most of their kisses previous, somehow more desperate, and Harvey gives as good as he’s getting, which Mike seems to appreciate.

They part for air, eventually, and Mike brushes his nose against Harvey’s.

“What?” he murmurs, and Harvey chuckles.

“I was gonna say I’d be honored, but, I dunno…”

Mike smacks him upside the head and leans in for another kiss.

“I love you,” he says softly. Harvey kisses him once more, for luck.

“I love you too.”

\---

“You ever heard of the Correctional Association?”

Harvey lowers the Times and furrows his brow as Mike types away on his laptop.

“Maybe,” he says. “Sounds familiar, why?”

Mike taps the touchpad and rests his chin on his fist. “It’s a prison reform organization, they have an office in Harlem. I have an interview there tomorrow afternoon.”

Pushing the last scraps of his eggs (over easy) and toast (whole wheat, buttered) aside, Harvey lays the paper down on the kitchen island and folds his arms over it.

“So prison reform, that’s your new calling?”

Mike shrugs and closes the laptop. “I don’t think so,” he muses, “but it looks like a good group and I think working there might go a ways to getting Danbury out of my system. Plus it’ll give me time to figure out…you know, a better fit for the next step.”

The next step.

Harvey’s gaze softens and he relaxes his shoulders as he looks at his fiancé (get used to it), his constant companion of the last eight years (excluding a few minor detours). It’s been a hell of a ride, and while the classics would avow that he shouldn’t regret a single second that led them to this place, there’s no denying that he does regret some of it. He finds it difficult to care overmuch; there’s no telling which parts were secretly critical in his and Mike’s finally getting their heads out of their asses and getting together, and more to the point, it’s all over and done with now.

Well, some of the shit with Rachel was probably unnecessary.

Mike takes a noisy bite of cereal.

Harvey stands to put his dishes in the dishwasher and goes to the closet for his coat.

“Let’s go shopping on Saturday,” he says as he picks up his briefcase. Mike coughs and touches his chest.

“I haven’t worn a skinny tie in years,” he defends.

Resting his hand on the doorknob, Harvey smirks.

“Good thing I was talking about rings.”

Mike grins at him.

Yeah; this step is in the right direction.

**Author's Note:**

> Jack McCoy (Sam Waterston) is basically the poster boy for the "Order" side of the original _Law & Order_ show; he served as Executive Assistant District Attorney from season 5-17 and District Attorney from season 18-20 (the series' termination).
> 
> [Hillstone](http://hillstonerestaurant.com/) is a real restaurant at 153 East 53rd Street in New York.
> 
> The [Correctional Association of New York](http://www.correctionalassociation.org/) is a real NPO that advocates humane reform to the US criminal justice system; it's not unusual for prison reform organizations to hire former prisoners. Regarding Mike looking for work after leaving Specter Litt LLC, it's technically illegal to refuse to hire a convicted felon on that basis alone, but it _is_ legal to refuse to hire someone if the nature of their criminal record indicates that they may be a liability in that position, meaning it would be very difficult for Mike to get a job in the legal profession (with or without interference from Anita Gibbs).
> 
> Fic title is from "Toward the Unseen Future" from _Yu Yu Hakusho_ (Battle-hen 1).


End file.
